


Chanel No. 5

by kingtear



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scent Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Some Humor, because lets be real this is a crack pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingtear/pseuds/kingtear
Summary: That’s the thing about Javier — he smells so damn good.
Relationships: Javier Escuella/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 73





	Chanel No. 5

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a really porny tribute to how stylish Javier is  
> Hope you enjoy!

In a camp filled with degenerates like John, who prefers being pistol-whipped to taking a bath, and Bill, who chews so much tobacco it’s practically oozing from his pores, an unoffending scent is a rarity. Especially when Pearson’s pungent stew, gamey and rich, is brewing half the day. So Arthur notices, very much and very often, how good Javier smells. 

This hasn’t always been the case. When Javier joined them, he was a bite-sized scrap of a thing with greasy hair and dirt-stained cheeks, sweating like a pig under the desert sun. He reeked, almost as much as Uncle does after a liquor binge, right up until he got his first take on a stick-‘em-up stagecoach robbery, fistfuls of cash and pearls frisked from a sobbing couple. Javier vanished from camp for a full day and rode back in the evening with his hair trimmed and skin glowing, dressed to the nines in a navy blue vest and freshly ironed blazer, a silky crimson ascot covering the scar on his neck. He smelled like soap and pinewood and a hint of citrus, and Arthur thought to himself: _Holy hell_ , and resisted the urge to wolf-whistle, and has sort of been resisting the same urge ever since as he watches Javier strut around camp in his fitted trousers and improbably stylish poncho. No one should look that good in a goddamned poncho.

Arthur has become fairly adept at keeping this less-than-brotherly appreciation to himself, over the past few years. He’ll walk up to Javier and casually say, “Nice shirt,” when Javier gets a new button-up, pristine and tailored to accentuate the sleek line of his waist, instead of staring open-mouthed from across camp and almost tripping over a pile of firewood (which has definitely not happened before, no matter what John says). If Javier is playing guitar by the fire, still somehow looking impeccable after a day in the wilderness, Arthur will sit beside him at an appropriate distance and keep his inhales of Javier’s scent (tangled deliciously with woodsmoke) virtually indistinguishable from normal respiratory activity. And maybe sometimes Arthur will slip up and lean in a bit too close when he pats Javier on the back, breathing in that refreshing, soapy pine smell — but, hey, he’s only human. And he doesn’t _mean_ anything by it. Everyone appreciates a pleasant aroma.

So this little habit of his carries on without notice or fanfare or consequence. Until one evening when Arthur’s resting by the campfire with his back to the log seat, listening to the soft sounds of Javier’s guitar. Arthur is more than a bit drunk from celebrating a big score with the gang and Javier is behind him, perched on the log with his legs shucked up, and his thigh is just inches away from Arthur’s head, and somehow Javier still emanates this aura of immutable _cleanness_ despite getting literally soaked in blood from stabbing a man in the throat earlier in the afternoon. It’s late, and everyone else is passed out drunk, and the whiskey has nudged Arthur’s brain into the territory of _I’m drunk, fuck it,_ so Arthur tilts his head the slightest bit toward Javier and sniffs, very subtly.

“...Did you just smell my leg?”

Aw, shit.

“Arthur,” says Javier, bending to look at him, “what was that?”

Arthur ducks his head, trying to hide his probably beet-red cheeks under the brim of his hat. 

“S’nothin’,” he says, unconvincingly, as he racks his mind for a plausible excuse.

“I don’t know, _amigo_.” Javier sets his guitar aside. Then, he wraps his slender fingers around Arthur’s jaw and tilts Arthur’s face back toward him. Voice suggestively low, he says, “Didn’t seem like nothing to me.”

Arthur’s mouth goes dry. He swallows whatever meager cop-out he prepared and ventures, slowly, “No. Maybe not.”

Javier’s stare is intense in the firelight. “So tell me — what were you doing?”

“I was...” Arthur hesitates, embarrassed to say it. “You smell good,” he provides, instead. Javier can fill in the blanks.

“Do I?” says Javier, with a pleased quirk to his lips. 

His finger is stroking the edge of Arthur’s jaw now, lightly scratching his beard. Arthur feels a haze of lust descend, curling warmly in his stomach alongside the whiskey.

“Real good,” Arthur says, entranced. “Clean and woodsy. Sorta like oranges, sometimes. Don’t know how you do it.”

“That’s a lot of detail.”

Damn it. Arthur has revealed far too much. He backpedals, “I just notice these things. ‘Bout a lotta folk.”

Javier traces his thumb over Arthur’s bottom lip and leans in, so close that Arthur thinks he can see his own reflection blurred in Javier’s dark eyes.

“No,” Javier says, tantalizingly smug, “I don’t think you do.”

He presses the pad of his thumb down, encouraging Arthur to part his lips. Arthur inhales sharply at the gesture and gets a whiff of Javier’s breath, cool from chewing mint leaves. Arthur wants to surge forward and kiss him, delve into his mouth and taste the herbs there. But that isn’t the sort of thing a man like Javier would want, and it isn’t what Arthur should want, either. So Arthur does the next best thing; he sucks Javier’s thumb into his mouth and _licks_ , caressing it with his tongue.

Javier’s pupils dilate, black devouring his irises. “ _Mierda_ ,” he says, with a shiver. He replaces this thumb with two fingers, sliding the digits in up to the second knuckle. Arthur sucks wetly at them, saliva pooling in his mouth. Javier’s fingers taste like leather and gun oil, not so inexplicably clean as the rest of him, but still inexplicably _good._ Arthur’s dick aches as he imagines what else of Javier’s might taste so good.

Arthur pulls back, Javier’s fingers leaving his mouth with an obscene pop.

“There’s a spot I know not far from camp,” Arthur says hoarsely. “It’s private. I can…” He drops his gaze deliberately to Javier’s tented trousers. 

Javier hums, considering. Then he smirks, felinely attractive, and says, “No. I think you can suck my cock just fine right here.”

The words that Arthur skirted around, so brazenly stated, so _filthy_. The haughty confidence in Javier’s gaze, the presumption of his tone, like it’s a privilege for Arthur to put his mouth on Javier’s dick. It all makes arousal flare in Arthur’s belly, and his baser desires take control of his body, shunting aside worries about privacy and dignity. He lifts himself onto his knees and crawls between Javier’s spread legs, grabbing onto one thigh when he drunkenly sways a bit.

“Don’t get my pants dirty,” Javier scolds, brushing away Arthur’s hand and the dirt that it left behind.

“S’rry,” Arthur mumbles. 

He dusts his hands off on his shirt before reaching for Javier’s groin, and carefully undoes his pants. His fingers tremble on the glittering brass buttons. When he finally gets Javier’s cock out, Arthur’s mouth is watering. It’s a pretty, flushed thing, just slim enough that Arthur knows it’ll fit in his mouth, just wide enough that it’ll stretch his lips a bit. He can’t help it — he inhales, deeply, and the musky scent makes him so hard it _hurts_.

“Any day now,” says Javier, tapping his foot. The golden spurs of his boots jangle once, twice. He’s leaning back, looking impatiently down on Arthur over the bridge of his nose.

Arthur wraps one hand around the base of Javier’s cock to steady it, then swallows down the rest of it until it hits the back of his throat. All Arthur can smell is Javier, skin and sex and sweat, and still somehow _pine_ and soap, because Javier is well-groomed here, too, of course he is. It makes Arthur’s head spin, overwhelmed by the scent of him, by the weight of Javier’s cock in his mouth.

Javier curses and threads a hand into Arthur’s hair. Arthur bobs his head, hollowing his cheeks and pooling saliva in his mouth. It drips from his lips onto his chin as Javier tightens his grip on Arthur’s hair and jerks him down, forcing him to take more of his cock.

“God damn, Morgan,” Javier says, voice lust-rough, as Arthur valiantly shunts aside his gag reflex and just lets himself properly _choke_ , allowing Javier to ruthlessly shove his head up and down. “You suck dick better than any _puta,_ you know that?”

Arthur doesn’t know exactly what that means, but he can guess from the context. The degrading word makes his ears burn with shame and, even worse, makes his dick twitch in his pants. He fumbles to undo his pants, groaning around Javier’s cock when he gets a hand around himself and starts stroking.

Javier notices the movement. He tuts and says, “You got time to touch yourself? I guess this is too easy for you, just letting me fuck your mouth.” Javier relinquishes his grip on Arthur’s hair and leans back. “Work for it.”

Arthur grips his own dick, tight, to prevent himself from coming right then. Then, he gets to work. He mouths at the tip of Javier’s cock, dribbling more spit. He brings one hand up and smears the spit over it, then starts pumping as he laps at the head, sloppy and wet, with all the grace of a thirsty dog.

“That’s better,” Javier purrs. “You look fucking good like this, on your knees. Wish someone would wake up, come see your pretty mouth around my dick.”

God, Arthur practically forgot that they were in the middle of camp ( _no, he hasn’t, he’s kept that thought in the back of his head the whole time and it’s made his blood pulse like pressing down on a bruise_ ). He pulls back, a line of spit trailing from his lips. 

“Maybe someone will,” he rasps, and Jesus, his fucked-out voice will be hard to explain tomorrow, “if you keep talkin’ like that.”

Then, Arthur returns to sucking greedily at the head of Javier’s cock, his free hand back to stroking his own dick.

“You think so?” Javier says, louder. “Would you like that? Someone coming out to see you with your mouth stuffed full of my cock. Jerking yourself off while you gag for it.”

Arthur’s fist tightens around his own dick, and he moans.

“You fucking love this so much. How long have you wanted me?” Javier’s words come out a bit breathless as Arthur sucks him with intensified vigor. “I can’t blame you, Morgan, I look fucking _good._ ”

Fuck, Javier is ruthless. Arthur quickens his strokes; he wants to come _now_ , and he wants Javier to come, preferably down his throat, or actually, maybe —

“I’m going to come,” Javier growls. 

Arthur moves his mouth away. “Stand up,” he says hoarsely.

Delighted understanding glimmers in Javier’s eyes. He gets to his feet, towering over Arthur and starts pumping himself, almost lazily. He’s gorgeous and lean and arrogant, and Arthur jerks himself off in time to Javier’s strokes and watches him worshipfully.

Javier comes with a groan, his seed splattering on Arthur’s cheek, his lips. Seconds later, Arthur’s dick throbs and then, gasping, he comes so hard he feels like he might pass out. 

Maybe he does, because the next thing he knows, Javier has already tucked his dick away and is standing before Arthur without a hair on his head out of place or a wrinkle in his clothes. Javier smiles, satisfied, and smears his thumb through the come on Arthur’s lips.

“Now you smell like me,” Javier preens. “Isn’t that nice?”

 _Yea,_ Arthur thinks, dazedly. _It is._


End file.
